His Head, Her Heart
by MystryGAB
Summary: House visits Cuddy after Wilson dies. Where does it go from here?
1. Chapter 1

_My good friend Veronique was talking about a vision of House and Cuddy she'd had and my mind went here. It's nowhere near the direction her mind went, but she's still responsible for the nudge to my muse. Don't hate on her for it. She can't be held responsible for my insanity. And since the medicine is vague and takes a lot of license, she shouldn't even be connected with it! Sorry, V. __ This will be two chapters, btw. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: If I was involved in with the show, we'd have never gotten to this point anyway._

**His Head, Her Heart**

Cuddy groaned when she heard the knock at the door. She couldn't imagine who would be visiting at this time of night. Nor could she think of anyone she'd want to see at this time of night, especially considering she had just decided to run a bath for some pampering time. The fact her visitor hadn't stopped knocking, but was incessantly…

She stumbled, her heart beginning to race as the unusual tone of the knock registered with her.

_It couldn't be. _She swallowed hard and lifted a hand to her chest as she took a deep, calming breath. This was it. The moment she'd been expecting, the moment she'd been dreading and anticipating for over two years.

She swung the door open without hesitation.

House froze, the curve of his cane lifted in front of him as he stared wide-eyed at her. He'd lost weight, she immediately noticed. His beard was heavily sprinkled with grey, much more than she remembered. And he was losing his hair. From her angle she could guess the thinning area at the crown of his head was a full-fledged bald spot at this point. There were additional wrinkles around his eyes and dark circles rimming the bottom. He was tired. If the deep slump and the way he was leaning to one side was any indication, he was also hurting.

"All this time and you still haven't learned to knock like a normal human being?"

It had been almost three years since she'd seen him, and he was allegedly dead. Wilson was really dead. She'd gone to his funeral and wondered when this day would occur, when the dead would rise and greet her.

"Normal is boring," he smirked, and then flinched, immediately regretting his reflex response. _Dammit!_ He was blowing this already; he silently slapped himself. The last time he'd seen her he'd parked his car in her dining room. He needed to be remorseful and apologetic, beg for mercy…

Cuddy didn't miss the twinge of panic flicker in his eyes. He was nervous, perhaps even scared. He should be.

House couldn't take his eyes of her. She still took his breath away. He'd accepted that she always would, and tried to steel himself against the impact she would have on his senses when he saw her again. Nothing could have prepared him.

She'd lost weight, too much weight. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, the veins in her neck protruded, the line of her clavicle was much more defined and he could see the bones of her chest. She was wearing a tank top and yoga pants, as she always had when she was relaxing at home, but they weren't snug. They were loose fitting, very unlike the Cuddy he remembered, the one who haunted his dreams. But even as his peripheral vision took in these details, his focus remained on her expression as her eyes curiously looked him over.

"You're not surprised to see me," he said, and frowned. The fact she hadn't slammed the door in his face was shocking, that she was calmly and collectively sizing him up was astonishing.

Cuddy arched a brow at him.

He jerked at this unexpected realization. "You knew I wasn't dead?"

"Seriously?" She mocked him.

House was disconcerted. He'd imagined seeing her again many times over the years, even played out scenes in his head over the past few months. She'd always been angry, or afraid, slamming the door in his face and refusing to see him. He'd prepared himself for a battle, ready to beg and bargain for her to hear him out…even though in every scenario he never knew what to say. How could he ever find the right words to apologize for what he'd done? How could he ever ask anything of her?

Cuddy pulled the shawl draped over her shoulders tighter around her, took a deep breath and stared at him with a steady but indiscernible glare. "So are we going to treat you, or are you here for your last rites?"

House felt the air rush out of him and leaned heavily on his cane when his legs threatened to give out.

"You'd better come in before you fall over," she quickly said, aware of his reaction, but making no move to assist him. She opened the door wider and moved inside for him to follow.

He closed the door behind him as he followed her. His eyes quickly looked around her place as they walked through a small entry and into the family room. He recognized some of the furniture and artwork, most of the pictures and trinkets, but there was so much different. Why wouldn't it be? It was a new place, a new home. A home she'd been forced to make in another state after he'd destroyed her life.

"Where's Rachel?"

Cuddy jolted, turning to glare at him. Her eyes full of fire and darts. "Don't you dare," she spat. "You don't get to ask about her."

House stepped back, stunned by her quick fury after such a reserved welcome.

"How's your wife?" She snarled.

He swallowed hard and dropped his head to stare at the floor. He deserved her anger; he deserved her hate.

Cuddy flopped down in a chair near the fireplace and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

He wondered if she was chilled or protecting herself.

"We're divorced," he answered even though he understood she didn't really care. He knew she'd only asked to shut him up, to let him know the topic of Rachel was not up for discussion. He got the message. She may be showing a willingness to hear him out, even show a distant kindness to him, but she was not going to expose her daughter to any risk. He was a risk. He always had been. After everything that had happened, she was sure to regret taking a risk with him above anything else in her life.

She stared at him blankly, her fury replaced with a controlled apathy. He shook his head and turned away, feeling a familiar frustration rise within him. How many times had he desperately tried to get a response from her? To catch a glimpse of the same pain and sadness he was feeling? She'd always been so controlled, showing only a brief flash of anger or resentment and then quickly hiding it behind a wall of calm. In the past, it infuriated him. Now, it just felt warranted and smart. They had a way of coming together in pain and darkness. Maintaining such an air of cool disinterest put distance between them that felt cavernous.

"Your choice or hers?" She asked with disdain.

He bowed his head. He didn't want to talk about Dominika.

"How'd you know?" He asked instead, dropping the book bag from his shoulder onto the floor at the coffee table.

She watched him look around the room, knowing he was taking in every detail and processing clues that would tell him what she'd been doing all this time, what he'd missed of her life. He was fidgeting, bouncing his cane – a new one it seemed, or at least new to her since she didn't recognize the mahogany color or the intricate etchings – and wiggling the fingers on his free hand as if playing the notes on a piano.

"That you weren't dead or that you're sick?" She asked.

He frowned at her before answering, "Both."

She looked away from his curious, examining eyes and stared out the window. A shadow fell over her features and House could feel the sadness emanating from her.

"I was so angry," she finally said. "It was bad enough you'd put me through hell and then married a hooker, but to have you destroy my home, endanger my life and Rachel's…"

"I didn't…"

"You ran your car through my dining room," she said, gesturing with her hand to prevent further argument. "I was terrified. Weeks later and I still couldn't believe it. I couldn't reconcile the man I knew with the man that destroyed my life that day. And that was my first real clue. That's when I started to piece it together. The man I knew and loved would have never done that to me. He wasn't violent; He was self-destructive and careless, and possibly a lunatic, but never violent like that."

House stilled as he listened to her.

"As hurt as you were, that was not something the House I'd known for over twenty years would ever do," she said. "And that made me think about all of the things you'd been doing that were out of character…extreme behaviors even for you!" Her eyes locked with his. "That's when I knew something was wrong, something they didn't catch when they worked on your leg, something you were either ignoring or too numbed with drugs to notice."

He stared blankly at the bookshelf behind her as he considered her words.

She was right. He had been too stoned to notice. At first he'd been too focused on the pain from the break-up, then the guilt from what he'd done. He'd attributed so much to the hate and humiliation he felt, and the stress of prison life. By the time he'd returned to PPTH and tried to rebuild his life, he was almost numb, experiencing a calm that wasn't peaceful at all. He didn't feel like himself, but wasn't sure what a man in his position and condition was supposed to feel like. He'd tried to create a life from that numb place, unwilling to go to such extremes again to feel because that would mean taking equally horrifying measures not to feel. He was tired to that treadmill. So, he tried to create a phlegmatic life, focused only on the things that would prevent any depth of emotion or thought.

Then Wilson had gotten sick. The only thing that really mattered to him was slipping away. The only person left in his life that really knew and understood him – and still managed to love him – was dying. His focus became totally absorbed with his friend, desperate to help him, to save him. Until it was clear he couldn't.

It wasn't until they were on the road, determined to make the most of Wilson's last few months, House had begun to notice the symptoms. He'd catalogued them, written them in his memory as he would on a whiteboard, and searched for patterns and clues. It hadn't taken long to realize the symptoms may have started long before their road trip. He began to realize he had been dealing with more than heartache and shame for quite some time.

"But then you sabotaged your court hearing and ended up in jail for the long haul," she said. "I thought I must be wrong. You'd had time to process and figure it out before you turned yourself in. You could have used the illness as a defense, but you didn't. I thought I must have been kidding myself, looking for excuses…So, I was back to hating you, to hating myself for loving a man like you."

House looked up at her then. "I'm sorry." He said the words he'd been practicing for months, for years. She didn't respond, electing to just continue explaining.

"Wilson told me how you were when you got back to the hospital," she said. "When I heard you refused to talk about me, or even listen to anyone talk about me, I knew it would be easy to get some answers. So when I talked with people from the hospital, I'd ask how you were, what you were doing, how you looked. People are always willing to talk about you, House."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm the tabloid everyone hates to admit they read."

Cuddy grinned slightly. That was actually a true assessment.

"I tried to warn them something was wrong," she said.

"They wouldn't have seen it any more than I did," he shrugged. "Too many behaviors and so-called 'symptoms' could be attributed to others things."

Cuddy nodded and took a moment to look him over. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a light blue button shirt over it and his signature jeans and sneakers. He was still wearing his coat, the brown one he didn't wear except on special occasions, usually choosing one of his leather jackets instead. In spite of the toil the past few years had taken on him, he looked good, really good.

"Why don't you take your coat off and stay awhile," she said. There was an unintentional flirtation in her voice that came so natural to her.

He looked at her surprised, but began to remove his coat.

"The way Wilson acted at your funeral and disappeared after you 'died' made no sense given his condition," she told him. "Which clued me into the fact you weren't dead at all. Foreman vaguely confirmed it."

House turned then and seemed to melt onto the sofa where he'd just dropped his coat. Cuddy understood. Just the mention of Wilson was debilitating at times. She still mourned him. House was still grieving. Wilson was their best friend. He was all House had.

"You did good with him," she whispered. She wanted him to know she was proud of him, wanted him to know what a good thing he'd done.

"I didn't do enough."

"You gave up your life so he could live his," she said. "I'm glad you were there for him."

_Like you couldn't be there for me._

The unspoken words hung in the air between them. His eyes glistened with water, but he wouldn't shed a tear. He didn't deserve to feel sad with her, didn't deserve sympathy any more than her respect, not after all he'd done. He seemed to collapse into himself, cowering like an abused animal expecting the next blow.

"So what is it?" She pointedly asked. "Tumor? Infection? MS?"

House kept his eyes on his hands as he wove his fingers together.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said.

"Don't," she stopped him, not wanting to delve into the past until she knew what she was dealing with right now. "I'm assuming you had tests to confirm your suspicions. What did you find?"

House reached for his bag and removed a large envelope, quietly handing it to her.

He returned to his position on the sofa and watched as she looked through the contents of the file. "Traumatic neuronal injury," she whispered as she read. "Increased cyclic AMP and glutamate levels… excitotoxicity…neurodegeneration…ischemia," she zoned in on certain words, frowning as she read through the various test results. Finally, she pulled out the scans to hold them up to the light. One by one she examined them, shaking her head and biting at her lower lip in concentration.

Cuddy dropped the hand holding the scan back into her lap and stared at him, shocked.

"How?" she asked.

"Don't know," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"House," she warned, not willing to accept any vague answers or feigned unconcern.

"I cracked my skull a few years back AND had deep brain stimulation. Maybe I have a weak head," he scoffed.

"That was years ago," she argued. "I hardly think this is a form of secondary brain injury after all this time."

He sighed and leaned back in frustration. "Maybe one of my hallucinations hit me in the head," he said. "Or I hit my head when I fell down and hurt myself, or the sudden return to drugs after being clean for so long. Wait! It could have been that jump from the balcony, or when that hooker got too rough with the S&M."

Cuddy recognized his biting sarcasm for what it was: humiliation. Remembering the days of debauchery after their break-up, she understood his disgust. She shared it.

"Maybe it was the experimental drugs, or the hairbrush, or the beatings in prison, or the bike accident…"

"Or all of the above?" She asked calmly, unwilling to fall into his web of self-hate.

He paused to stare at her before simply nodding.

Cuddy closed her eyes to process the information. At this point, it didn't matter when or how it happened. House had a brain injury with corresponding insults. The behavior changes, the extreme reactions, depression, explosive irritability, anxiety, jealousy, all of it could have been a result of this progressive trauma.

"I wanted you to hurt," he suddenly said.

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her with a pained expression.

"I wanted to know you felt the pain that I was feeling," he continued. "You were so calm and aloof. It was so easy for you to move on like I didn't matter."

Cuddy turned away from his sad eyes as she remembered those painful days. He'd been so cruel, so uncontrolled and vicious. The cancer scare had shaken her; walking away from him had devastated her. She'd been quietly dying inside, desperate to regain her equilibrium, to find some sense of stability. She'd crawled into a protective carapace, hiding her broken heart from view, and projecting an image that ensured no one would get too close, no one would see she was broken.

"It wasn't easy," she whispered, meeting his gaze once again. "I was barely breathing."

He stared at her, seeing the truth, accepting the truth he'd known all along. "I'm sorry, Cuddy," he said with a raspy voice. "I'm so sorry."

He had many regrets. She was certain of it. He also carried enough self-recrimination and self-loathing to last a lifetime. She didn't need to add to it. Attacking him now wouldn't change anything. After reading that medical file, she wasn't even sure it would be fair. But did an illness excuse his actions, forgive all the pain. How it all happened didn't change the result, did it?

"I know you could never forgive me. I wouldn't expect you to. I just needed you to know…I just…" His voice trailed off and his eyes moved back and forth, as if frantically searching for words in the space around them. He took a deep breath and continued. "I never deserved you," he said. "I don't deserve anything." His voice was cracking beneath the strain of his pent-up emotions. "But…I love you. That's never changed."

Cuddy looked at him, really looked at him. He was just a shell of the man she once knew, the man she once loved. He had truly lost everything this time. He had no job, no identity, no Wilson…now even his mind was threatened.

She stood and walked over to sit on the coffee table to face him. His eyes searched hers.

Those blue eyes. She could still drown in them.

"What are we going to do?" She asked.

His eyes widened even as he arched a brow in question.

"I'm assuming there are treatment options you've looked into, unless being dead already is creating an issue," she said. "And in that case, and any case for that matter, I'm assuming you're here because you want my help."

He was clearly shocked.

She watched the movement of his jaw as he fought the emotions that threatened to overtake him.

"I'm not dead," he said.

"I can see that."

"I had a lawyer take care of it," he further explained.

Cuddy imagined his current medical condition helped him get out of trouble.

"So what is it you need?" She asked.

His gaze dropped to her lips.

"What would your boyfriend say?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Subtle," she said.

"It's one of my best attributes."

She shook her head, looking away from him to hide her grin. Then he touched her hand. She felt an electric shock run through her at the contact and looked back at him, wide-eyed and frightened.

He jerked his hand back and mumbled "sorry."

Cuddy watched him begin to move restlessly. Her response had upset him. His touch had upset her. But not in the same way. She wasn't frightened of him. Ironically, after everything that had happened, with everything she knew, she wasn't afraid he would hurt her. It wasn't him that scared her.

She didn't know how she felt. She didn't know if his condition changed anything. It diffused the anger, allowed at least the door to be open for forgiveness. It shed a new light on the situation and perhaps created a path of understanding. It proved the theories and hypothesis she'd clung to in hope and desperation, but it didn't bring any clarity to her thoughts or emotions. Suddenly becoming aware that a simple touch from him could still ignite her desire only baffled her more.

"There's no one in my life," she finally said with a hint of defiance. "But that doesn't mean anything to you or to us, House."

He breathed a sigh of relief, not because she wasn't married already (although that brought him more pleasure than he had a right to feel) but because she wasn't walking away. Maybe he had something to live for after all.

"I'm brain damaged not stupid," he answered back.

She chuckled.

"Why would you help me?" He asked her in all honesty.

She shrugged. "I'm an idiot."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_Your response to this story has been amazing. I'm glad you all are so excited with the idea and want it to be explored. I have taken your requests and comments to heart and have decided to take this a little farther than originally planned. It still won't be very long, but I think I agree that it deserves to go a little deeper than a two-shot would allow. So, under the advisement of the readers, I present chapter two. (Oh, and V – it's still to your credit.)_

_Disclaimer: I'm not connected with you know who or you know what._

**Chapter Two**

House restlessly sat in the waiting room, silently diagnosing the various patients seated around him. At least his intellect wasn't affected by his cognitive disturbances, he just had emotional and expressive incontinence, and intermittent impulse control issues, and an increasing lack in judgment.

_What's new? _

Most people would say he'd always had those issues. Only he knew the extent of his symptoms. No one else knew the difficulties he was having, except for Cuddy.

_Cuddy._

He hadn't seen her since he'd come to her house three weeks ago. They'd spent hours that night talking about his symptoms, Wilson, their road trip and his last days, prison, anything she wanted to talk about. He just wanted to spend time with her, to breathe in the feeling of being with her again.

She asked a lot of questions. He knew she wasn't just evaluating him, but discovering what he'd been doing, understanding where his mind and heart had been, and ascertaining where he was at that moment. She was being a doctor as much as a friend. And he held on to a thin hope that she was with him because she still felt something for him.

She'd refused to talk about her life, only providing the basic information and avoiding details. She completely shut down any personal or intimate topics. In spite of her efforts, he'd figured out she hadn't been with anyone since him. Not even the guy he'd seen through her window that fateful day. She'd remained alone.

He couldn't put his finger on how he felt about that. He didn't want her to be with anyone else. He wanted to be the love of her life. He wanted to be "it" for her, the standard that no one could ever meet. He'd probably become that, but in a very negative way. His impact on her life had left her unwilling to open her heart, to trust, to believe in any man again. He feared he'd destroyed her.

Someone sat down heavily in the chair next to him and tossed a purse on the floor between them. House looked up, annoyed, but faltered when he saw her grey-blue eyes looking at him.

"You're taking us to lunch when we get out of here," she sighed. "I didn't have my coffee this morning, I had to sit in economy on the flight here, next to the poster boy for annoying traveling salesman I should add, and traffic just sucks."

House smiled.

He'd left her to go to rehab, and although they hadn't talked for a week while he was going through the worst part of detox, he had received notes and messages. She'd made some phone calls, worked the system and called in some favors to get him appointments with the "best of the best" to discuss treatments, trials, drug therapies and cognitive rehabilitation. By the time he'd left the rehab center, he had a calendar of appointments and a file full of pertinent reading material. She was always the administrator, always his savior.

"Stop smiling like that," she mumbled. "You look like a pervert."

His smile grew bigger. They'd talked on the phone several times over the past two weeks. He'd moved back into his apartment – having nowhere else to go – but was struggling to rebuild his life. Not that he could even try. He couldn't go back to PPTH, not that he even wanted to without Cuddy and Wilson, and the apartment didn't really feel like home anymore. He was restless, and bored, and rudderless. He couldn't really make any decisions on his life as long as his brain was in the balance. But he had too much time on his hands to obsess over his problems, to fall into depression and patterns of self-destruction.

But then she'd called. They'd talked about rehab and all of the information she'd given him, she'd confirmed his various appointments and made him promise not to back out of them. He'd told her about a new neighbor who he had diagnosed as schizophrenic by the way he talked as he sorted through the mail. She'd told him about a new exercise class she was trying. They'd talked for two hours. He'd felt happy.

Two days later, he'd called her to talk about some research on mGluRs she'd forwarded. They'd talked for another two hours. Then she'd called him a couple of days later, and a pattern was set in place.

"I am a pervert," he said.

Her grin leaned more toward a smirk. "True."

House stared at her. He couldn't believe she was here. It was more than he would expect, and more than he dared to hope.

"You couldn't stay away," he feigned an arrogance he wasn't feeling. "You find me irresistible."

"Maybe witnessing the disintegration of a great mind is too much to resist," she said dryly.

He smirked. Her irreverence equaled his. Not many people got the chance to see that side of her.

"Gregory House." The nurse called from clinic doors.

Cuddy followed behind him as the nurse guided House to the back of the office, stopping to weigh him before leaving them in a consultation room to await the doctor.

"You're too thin," Cuddy said. She'd noted the reading on the scale and was concerned at the number.

"Haven't you heard?" He quipped. "Size doesn't matter."

"I'm serious."

He could see that. She was staring at him with the aloofness he was beginning to recognize as a mask to a deeper emotional reaction.

"You've lost too much weight," she said. "We need to find out if it's the stress from all that's happened and maybe your rehab, or is it a symptom."

"Don't play doctor," he softly demanded, and then waggled his brows. "Unless you're really playing doctor."

She rolled her eyes, but was interrupted from any comeback when Doctor Salman entered the room from behind where they were seated.

Introductions were quickly made before he quickly directed the conversation to the matter at hand.

Doctor Salman was very thorough as he went over the scans, tests, and reports from the doctors of the varying specialties on the case. He discussed with them details and how they resulted in the symptoms House was experiencing. He also began to build a focused medical history, asking House a number of questions specifically designed for cognitive behavioral assertion. House made notes in his mind of the conclusions being drawn from his answers and filed them away for later examination.

Brain injury is unpredictable in its consequences. They both understood there was no such thing as a standard approach or treatment. There was no one prescription or one therapy to address the symptoms. The effects of brain trauma were complex and varied from person to person, and since no two injuries were exactly the same, no two treatments would be the same. They would be creating an individualized plan of treatment and rehabilitation involving a multidisciplinary approach.

By the time they left the doctor's office, they had developed a plan of attack for treating the various symptoms through pharmacological, cognitive rehabilitation and neuropsychology treatments. An impressive panel of doctors was assigned to the case and House would have regular appointments with each of them throughout the program. It was a thorough and intensive approach to addressing the disease and the symptoms. Cuddy was cautiously optimistic, perhaps even encouraged, but she knew House was apprehensive and afraid to hope.

"Let's have Sushi," she said as they stepped out of the building and into the parking deck.

"You think now's the best time for me to eat raw food and face parasites and disease?"

She came to a stop beside him, turning to check his expression for a sign of teasing. "You're kidding, right?"

House smirked and took her hand. "Come on! There's a new place around the corner we can check out."

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

"It could be Lyme disease and not an effect of some phantom brain injury," House said as he used his chopsticks to grab a rainbow roll from her plate and pop it in his mouth.

Cuddy frowned at him; House exaggerated his chewing to annoy her. He didn't need to know it wasn't eating her food that annoyed her, but the closeness it implied. She'd let it slide when he'd held her hand as they walked to the restaurant. It seemed to be an automatic response, not an intentional move to test the waters. She suspected he was feeling a little anxious after meeting with the doctor and it was a reflex to take her hand. At least that's how she'd justified it to herself as she allowed it to continue. Now, she was aggravated to find how easy it was for them to fall back into patterns of intimacy.

"That's a lot of cognitive disturbance for Lyme," she said.

"I have a pretty extensive pre-existing injury," he shrugged. "Besides, all of the symptoms have been seen in chronic Lyme disease so it's not far-fetched."

"Except there's a pretty compelling argument that chronic Lyme disease is actually an autoimmune disease," she played the devil's advocate.

"What came first the Lyme chicken or the immune egg?"

Cuddy grinned. God, she didn't want to enjoy being with him so much.

"Think about it," he said to her. "The way the symptoms wax and wane, the malaise, cyclical symptoms, pain, temperature fluctuations, all of the cognitive disturbances, sudden onset of dental issues, gastro esophageal reflux, and various digestive malfunctions…It's all there. In fact, if I were to write all of the symptoms – perceived or real – on a white board during a DDX, your first thought would be Lyme."

"And it would be tossed aside since there's nothing in the file indicative to the transmission of Borrelia Burgdorferi," she said.

"There's nothing to prove a secondary brain injury FIVE years after the initial trauma either!" House passionately argued. "It's actually more likely I contracted a tic instead of crabs during a rendezvous with…"

His eyes grew wide as his voice trailed off.

Cuddy held her expression, refusing to reveal his offhanded comment affected her. It was bad enough she felt the disgust on such a visceral level without him knowing it. She resented that he still had that power over her.

"Too bad the shift in the biochemistry of your frontal lobe can't be used as an excuse," she dryly responded. "You've always been a disgusting ass."

Cuddy took a swallow of her hot tea, now even more frustrated. It didn't matter if she controlled her expressions and responses if her words gave her away.

"Not always," he muttered. "I was a better man with you."

"Just a worse doctor," she spit back.

_Dammit!_ Maybe she was the one with the impulse control issues. Maybe he had a virus and it was spreading! She couldn't seem to filter her comments with him.

"I wasn't a worse doctor," he said softly. "I just felt more."

Cuddy flipped a hand in a gesture of disinterest. "It doesn't matter," she said, and began eating again.

"It does matter." House leaned forward and propped his arms on the table. "We should talk about it."

"There's no reason to," she said without looking at him. "It's in the past."

"But we need to talk about it if we're going to have a future."

"We don't have a future, House," she spoke evenly, her throat tight. "We don't have anything."

It was a blow. He felt as if the wind had been completely knocked out of him, and he winced at the impact of her words.

"So you're just here as a doctor?" He clarified. "We're not friends?"

Cuddy very slowly placed chopsticks on the table beside her plate and removed her napkin from her lap to place with it. She finally looked at him, her eyes locking with his.

"'Friends' is the last thing you want to be," she reminded him of the words he'd once spoken to her.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, steeling himself against the hurt he was feeling.

"Excuse me," she whispered.

He watched as she stood and weaved her way through the restaurant toward the restroom.

He was such an idiot. They'd fallen so easy into their phone conversations, and then she'd shown up here to support him. He'd unconsciously allowed himself to hope. As if hope made a difference at all!

There was no way she'd ever really forgive him and let him back into her life. He'd known that from the moment the reality of what he'd done finally kicked in as he sat on that beach watching the sunset. He'd destroyed any hope of happiness. After Wilson died, he thought he'd die too. But the human survival instinct defies logic. He was here fighting for a miserable existence.

He'd been compelled to find her, needing the assurance that she was alive and well, that she'd moved on in spite of how much he'd resented the thought of her doing just that. He'd needed to close the door on that part of his life, to apologize and let it go as Nolan had once explained was necessary to healing. He'd never expected her to actually help him, to support him. He should have known better. Her guilt and pity knew no bounds. It was his shame that he was hoping her response would be a springboard to more.

House shook his head. He was a fool. He really was brain damaged.

By the time Cuddy returned to her seat, she'd pulled herself together. She was angry at herself for breaking down. As she'd washed the tears from her face and freshened up her make-up, she'd silently gone through a reality check with herself.

She was furious that she could so easily feel at ease with the man who'd destroyed her life. Disappointed she held such anger for a sick man, and yet seemed to have an equal amount of sympathy for him. She was guilty that she'd somehow given him hope, and frustrated that he would actually embrace it. And she was absolutely disgusted at that part of her that still found him so damn irresistible. It was ridiculous! It was so codependent it was almost insane. She was pathetic.

As she ran her fingers through her hair, she'd determined she was going to set some boundaries for herself and place some distance between them. She'd made a mistake in coming to be with him for this doctor's appointment. That wouldn't happen again. Tomorrow she would go home and any future contact with House would be limited. The past was in the past. It needed to stay there.

House watched as Cuddy sat down, demurely placed the napkin on her lap and began to eat again as if nothing had ever happened. Her wall of aloofness had returned, even though he could see the signs that she'd been crying. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make things right. But the way to make things right would be just to let it go, let her go. His life was about survival; she had a chance to really live. He needed to give her what he'd given Wilson, the chance to do just that.

He placed a bite of horseradish on his roll and bit into it, deciding a little heat was needed to break the sudden chill invading him.

He didn't miss the irony as they began to talk about the weather.

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

He'd dropped her off at her hotel on his way home. She was going to visit with some old friends, stop by PPTH and do the networking thing. She'd done what she'd come to do: ensured he'd made his appointment and had a solid treatment plan. She'd leave in the morning and he wouldn't see her again. He'd never hear from her again.

House poured some whiskey into a glass and quickly drank it before pouring another. God he missed Wilson. He missed his friend. For once, he really wanted to talk, needed to talk and there was no one to listen. How ironic! The only two people who really knew him, who he really trusted, were gone. Wilson was dead. Cuddy…

He was lucky she even let him in the door that day, much less done everything else she had the past three weeks. She was amazing. She was the most amazing woman he'd ever known and he'd blown it. He'd ruined it. And then he'd made sure she'd never look back, never give him another chance. He'd made very certain she'd hate him so much it would be easy for both of them to move on.

But he hadn't move-on. He went through the motions, tried to pay penance, tried to be better. He didn't want to be that man that hurt her, that disappointed her. He needed to change, even though he knew that was impossible. People don't change. They leave. They die. Wilson died.

House filled his glass again.

She hadn't moved-on either. Oh, she'd moved. She'd bought a new house, in a new state; she had a new job. She'd taken on a life completely different from the one she'd built, the one that made her proud, the one that had made her happy. He could see right through her act. He'd always been able to see her. She was frozen. She was going through the motions, but she was paralyzed. He'd done that to her.

There was something fundamentally wrong with him. He couldn't blame it on brain damage. He'd always been screwed up. He'd always been miserable. He'd always hurt the people he loved.

House threw the glass across the room and watched it shatter against the wall near the fireplace.

He'd warned her. He'd told her he'd hurt her, that he'd do terrible things to her. She'd told him he was the most remarkable man she'd ever known.

_Remarkable. _

She'd believed in him. Even now she believed in him. That's why she'd helped him. That's why she hadn't turned her back on him.

She believed in him. She just couldn't be with him.

He couldn't blame her.

His head was pounding. He didn't know what hurt more, his head, his leg or his heart.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be alive. He should have been the one to die, not Wilson.

The pounding was getting louder. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to pain to stop. He wanted it to end.

The pounding was…House jerked around.

He knew it was her knocking on the door even before he swung open the door.

"You've been drinking," she said when she caught a glimpse of him.

"Yeah."

Why deny it? There was no reason to pretend. He had to gain, nothing to lose.

He turned away and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open for her.

"Have you taken anything?" He heard her close the door as he sat down on the sofa.

"You mean have I fallen off the wagon already and chased too many vicodin with too much alcohol?" He asked, but didn't see her nod as he stared blankly into space.

"House?"

She stood at the edge of the sofa and stared down at him. It wasn't the fact he was drunk that had her concerned. It wasn't even the unshed tears that swelled his eyes, or the paleness in his skin that worried her. It was his eyes.

She'd seen him broken and hopeless; she'd seen him afraid and even numb. But she'd never seen him so empty. His eyes were dead.

"You should go," he said.

"We need to talk," she told him, and sat on the opposite end of the couch from him.

He didn't look at her. He didn't answer.

"I was thinking about your theory on the Lyme disease," she said, biding her time as she desperately searched for a way to help him, a way to help herself. "Maybe it's not a crazy thought. Maybe we should be approaching this like you would any of your cases. After all, it's your head. You deserve a proper DDX."

He was quiet for so long she started to think he hadn't heard her when he finally said: "I don't deserve anything."

"House," she sighed.

He looked at her then with those empty, desolate pools of sadness. "It's okay, Cuddy," he said. "It's okay."

"What's okay?"

"You walking away," he answered simply. "You should walk away. You should have never let me in."

He turned away from her again.

What could she say? What was there to say? Everything was so screwed up.

He shouldn't be alone. She shouldn't be worried about him. He should be with Wilson, not her. She brought out the worst in him. She destroyed him. He should be with his friend.

Wilson was dead. House was alone. And he was scared.

She shouldn't care so much. She shouldn't be here. She couldn't stay away.

"You should go, Cuddy."

She felt the tears pooling in her eyes. It didn't matter what she'd done wrong, or what he'd done wrong. It didn't matter how much they seemed to hurt each other, or how totally dysfunctional they were, they couldn't resist the gravitational pull that always brought them back into a shared orbit. It was inevitable. She knew that. As much as she fought it, she knew he would always be a part of her life.

"It's okay," he said again. "You deserve to find some peace. You deserve to be happy."

A tear ran down her cheek at his words.

"Just go," he said.

She bowed her head in defeat.

"I can't."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for all of the lovely comments. I so appreciate your excitement and enthusiasm. _

_Disclaimer: No connection to Shore or Show._

**Chapter Three**

House stared at her, taking in her tortured eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She was scared, and guilty…and ashamed. She was angry at herself, afraid for him, and had no idea what to think about "them".

"You're pathetic," he said, but the tenderness in his eyes belied the harshness of his words.

She smiled sadly.

"You say the nicest things."

House sighed and laid his head back against the couch to look at the ceiling.

"How many did you take?"

House looked at her surprised.

"You think I took vicodin?"

Now she was surprised. "You didn't?"

"I'm about to start treatment to save my brain," he said. "I'm not that self-destructive!" He quickly realized what he'd said and rolled his eyes. "Well, not so soon after rehab at least. The detox experience is a pain that lingers, you know."

Cuddy searched his face for the truth of his words then sighed in relief.

"That's why you're here?" he asked. "To save me again?"

She bowed her head.

"Shit!" He spit out under his breath and rubbed his hand over his face in frustration.

"That's not why I came," she quickly said.

"But it is what you expected."

"No, it's not."

House tilted his head to the side and focused on her before shaking his head and moving to stand.

"You're such a liar," he said.

Cuddy tried not to be offended, especially since he was right.

"Most people lie out of fear: fear of harm or conflict, fear of punishment or rejection and loss, or as an altruistic delusion, believing that a lie will make someone feel better or give them hope. They lie to save face, either theirs or someone they care about," he said. "Do you know why we lie to each other?"

She watched him open the refrigerator and pull our two bottles of water.

"We're pathological?"

He handed her one of the bottles.

"Pathologically lonely," he said. "We lie to each other because in that moment when we recognize the truth our connection becomes very real. When we see through the lie, we've seen each other, we prove we know each other and in that validation…we don't feel so alone."

Cuddy felt her stomach tighten in response to his words, but tried to ignore it. She had a love-hate response to House-the-philosopher. But when he managed to hit close to home, it was even more unnerving.

"Or maybe we resent the truth and would rather live with the lie."

"You'd rather have found me sitting in the bathroom floor clinging to a bottle of vicodin?"

Cuddy sighed and looked away from him.

"No," she finally said, trying not to watch the way his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed the water. She'd always had a fascination with his neck, among other things.

"But it would have made it easier," he said. "My neediness justifies your weakness; it excuses your poor decisions and feeds your guilt."

"You flatter me."

House smirked. "The only thing that comes even close to your need to be needed is your need to be wanted. And not just sexually," he added. "You are well aware most every man, woman and beast wants a taste of you. What you need is to be accepted and wanted for who you are, with all your flaws and emotional scars."

Cuddy grimaced. "Everyone needs to be loved."

His eyes met hers, boring into her with an acute, tender penetration that left her breathless. The spark of life had returned, she noted and tried to feel pleased that simply being with her, talking with her accomplished it.

"You are loved," he said with a husky voice. "Unconditionally… just not perfectly."

Cuddy swallowed.

Therein was her problem. She had known House loved her as no one else ever would. He knew her - inside and out - and accepted her without judgment or penalty. She'd felt his love all along. What she hadn't felt was his strength, his consistency, his truth. She'd felt the vacuum of his need, had even fed it with her petty complaints and fruitless power plays. It had been an unbalanced relationship from the start, over-wrought with desperation and fear. He'd never felt safe in her love and she'd never felt safe in his need.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

She was startled from her thoughts by the gentle instruct of his words.

"You don't want me here?"

He frowned in exception.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he said. "I have no right to want anything."

"You've never felt like you had the right," she flippantly replied. "You've never believed you deserved anything that you might want."

"I proved myself right," he grumbled.

Cuddy could hear the weight of regret in his words.

He abruptly stood and turned to her. "You need to go," he said. "You don't need to be sucked back into my web of insanity. You've done your good deed, set me on the right course. Now you need to stop second guessing yourself."

He was right, of course. She needed to leave. It was too confusing to be with him. She couldn't tell where one emotion ended and the other began. They shared a history that offered longevity and commitment, but that history was woven in pain. What should have been safe was now dangerous. So much of what she believed and held to be true was shattered those weeks after their break-up. And any hopes and dreams that had remained were destroyed with her dining room.

They were broken, and yet it still felt so easy to be with him. In spite of it all, it was easy to talk with him, to be herself with him…to want him. That's what really scared her. Their attraction was palpable even after all this time. It was barely even muted. Every minute she spent with him brought her that much closer to the flame.

"You're not as drunk as you look," she said.

"You're not as strong as you look," he answered. He could see the battle on her face, in her posture. "I'm trying to do the right thing here Cuddy."

"For you or me?" She was so defiant. She was ready to fight for him as she always had, and yet she was ready to run, to hide from the uncertainty and expectation. This wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what either of them wanted. It was bondage.

They really would destroy each other this time around. He couldn't let that happen.

House closed his eyes against the pain in his chest, and he said the one thing he knew would release them.

"For Rachel."

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

She was miserable.

It was worse than before he came back. At least then she hadn't known he was sick. She could wrap her arms around the anger and disillusionment that far out-weighed the speculation surrounding his health. She could mock herself for grasping at such theories.

Now she knew the truth and it clung to her. Oh, she couldn't escape the hurt and anger. It came in bursts and flashes. But every day it seemed to fade, drifting a little more into the distance like an echo of the actual emotion. It was like memories when someone dies. The bad ones are there, but they don't carry the same weight or have the same impact, while the good memories gain momentum, healing and nurturing, increasing in strength and volume.

House wasn't dead. And it wasn't the bad memories that haunted her.

"Something happened between you two," Julia had told her at lunch that day. She had come to visit for a few days, and while the kids were off playing, the sisters had a chance to talk.

"Don't be ridiculous," she'd argued.

"Feel free to keep lying to me," Julia answered. "I could care less about the guy. But don't lie to yourself. I thought you were frozen after the break-up, but now you're an iceberg: you're not moving, and anyone who tries to push you is going down."

As much as she hated to admit it, her sister was right.

Cuddy grabbed the throw pillow from beside her on the sofa and held it to her chest. It had been two months since she'd seen him and she still couldn't stop thinking of him. The way they'd parted kept rolling over and over in her mind, night and day. She was tortured by the memory of his eyes, his smell, and his touch.

He'd walked her to the door, and she'd touched his cheek; he'd closed his eyes at her caress. She'd watched him breathe her in, imprinting the moment in his mind. His jaw had tensed as he'd pushed himself to "do the right thing," the noble thing. She couldn't deny it had been a selfless act. He was alone and facing a health crisis. He had every reason to cling to her, to manipulate her, to do everything in his power to get what he wanted. That was House, that was his way, or was it? She didn't know anymore.

She'd looked at him and seen a man that was letting go, not because he wanted to, and not because it was what was good for him. It wasn't about him at all. It was about her. It was all about her.

She'd leaned into him then, stretching up to place a kiss on his lips. It was meant to be a thank you, an acknowledgement of his sacrifice, a gracious goodbye. But then their eyes had met, and everything she'd ever felt for him bubbled to the surface. The pressure was finally released and molten hot lava ran through her veins.

Suddenly his mouth was devouring hers, drawing out the emotions in one passionate kiss after another. His will of steel melted beneath the heat that exploded between them; her resolve vanished.

Their tongues battled and she grew breathless and restless. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling her closer to him as she pushed it up his body. When her hands touched the bare skin of his abdomen he let out a strangled moan and pushed her back against the door. She felt his erection against her stomach and almost cried out in desperation.

Her mouth grew eager as her teeth nipped at his lower lip. He lifted her, sliding between her thighs to press against her heat as her body writhed against him. Every move fueled their hunger, ignited the recklessness she'd only enjoyed with him.

One of his hands slipped into her hair and he coaxed her head back to deepen the kiss, not with the initial desperation that had them tearing at their clothes, but with an intensely erotic lapping that had her crying out for more. He dragged the hand down her throat and parted the buttons that held her blouse together; she ripped at his shirt. He growled and quickly freed her breasts, pressing his chest against her. She understood his need for flesh against flesh, his yearning to be close. She could taste it in his mouth, feel it in his skin.

His lips moved down her neck, pausing to suck at the pulse that fluttered there, before dropping to swirl his tongue around her nipple, flicking the tight peak before he drew it inside his mouth with a slow, wet pull. She trembled and went boneless against him.

He'd caught her, holding her close as she looped her arms around his neck so she wouldn't fall, desperate to maintain the connection. She'd wanted him. She'd wanted him to touch her everywhere, to strip her naked and seed himself inside her. She'd wanted to feel the wonder of being one with him again.

But he'd grown still; his body pressed firmly against her.

She'd felt his breath on her neck and the tension in his body as he struggled to regain his composure. He'd remained quietly fused to her as their passion calmed to a simmer. When his hands came up between them to clasp her bra and button her blouse, she began to cry.

"I'm sorry," he'd whispered, his voice weak and trembling. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't," she'd cried. "Please don't."

He'd opened the door behind her and she knew he was really doing it, he was really saying goodbye.

"We can't do this," he said. "I'm sorry."

He gently pushed her into the hall and closed the door.

She'd been about to knock, to beg him to talk to her, to find a way to work through all of the emotions, but she'd heard him collapse against the door. The sound of him sliding to the floor was enough to stop her.

Cuddy now cried into the pillow. She didn't try to stop the tears, didn't even want to control them. She needed to let it out. She needed to release the years of toxic emotions that had held her captive. They'd prevented her from healing, from thinking clearly, from finding any direction or purpose.

She felt arms slip around her and pull her close. She was too distraught to care that anyone was there to witness her break, to watch her fall in despair. She was beyond feeling anything but the deluge of tears as the iceberg melted.

Cuddy was never so glad to have her sister with her as in the hours that followed.

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

His back was to the door when she entered. He was tossing a ball as he stared at a white board covered with symptoms written in black, red and green that hung on the back wall. Cuddy glanced around the small office, quickly noting the chest x-rays that hung on the light box, book shelf lined with both medical and science books, bulletin board full of space photos and the two computer monitors that sat on his desk, before her eyes landed on him.

His hair was longer, brushing the collar of his pink shirt. His shoulders looked broader and his biceps thicker, as if he'd been working out. His jean clad legs were stretched out in front of him, propped on the credenza, ankles crossed. She thought she'd allow herself a few moments to watch him and calm her nerves, but he surprised her when he turned to pick up his coffee cup and caught sight of her leaning in the door.

"Hi," she smiled shyly, uncertain of her reception.

To say he was surprised would be an understatement. He stared at her wide-eyed and speechless, afraid he was hallucinating, yet too happy to see her to worry over the idea.

"Hi," he finally responded.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"It wouldn't matter if you were," he said, a smile lighting his eyes.

Cuddy was relieved by his response. Over the past few weeks as she'd been tossing around the idea of coming to see him she'd imagined a variety of responses ranging from incredibly cheesy and out of character to tragic and dark. After the way they'd parted, she wasn't sure what to expect at all.

"You look good," she said.

"I feel good," he answered, watching her closely to gauge her feelings.

He'd been certain he'd never see her again. In fact, he'd come to accept they'd officially closed the door on their relationship when he'd pushed her out that day. He'd sat in the floor for hours after she left, digesting what happened between them and what he'd just done.

Her feelings for him were confused at best. The many years of antagonism and friendship, of lust and longing, the months of love a passion: all of it was damaged and soiled by his bitterness and anger. It was only the understanding of his illness that let him in her door; it was pity and guilt, and perhaps an unmerited sense of loyalty that had her helping him at all. She had been there for him, and for a brief moment it felt like something between them was shifting, like there may be a small thread of something good still connecting them.

When they'd come so close to making love only for him to reject her, he knew he'd tipped the scales in an unfavorable direction. He'd regretted it immediately, even hated himself for it. He'd felt the pressure of his need for her suffocating him, but had been unwilling to move on his decision.

He'd heard her words reverberating in his mind: "You'll choose yourself over everybody else over and over again because that's just who you are." This time, he refused to be that man. He'd sat in the floor for hours that night, finally realizing he'd managed to survive their breakup, prison, and Wilson…he'd survive again. He would live. It was the best he could hope for.

"You're working," she said.

"You can call it that."

She smiled.

"I'm just consulting on cases," he explained, standing to come around the desk. "I don't have a team and I don't run any tests. I'm just an advisor to the idiots and lost."

"All this while you work toward a Ph.D.," she added. She'd discovered he'd actually chosen to pursue the study of dark matter he'd always proclaimed was the ultimate puzzle.

He quirked a brow at her and smirked. "You checkin' up on me?"

"I googled you."

"Ah, cyber-stalking," he said. "You must be good. I hardly think there's much news about my thesis, especially so early into it."

"You'd be surprised," she answered.

He rolled his eyes. "Scientists are such gossips."

Cuddy sighed, saddened by the awkwardness between them. She understood it, had even anticipated it based on what had happened between them, but not how it would make her feel. Alone and drifting, without a rudder.

"You're here for the endocrinology symposium," he said, referencing the medical conference in town.

She nodded. He squinted. She knew he saw through her lie.

"It's an excuse," she acknowledged.

It was ridiculous to feel as if she needed one, and yet after all that had happened, she'd felt she needed some kind of subterfuge.

After breaking down with Julia, she'd been able to think more clearly, to sort through her thoughts and feelings and come to terms with the past. More importantly, she'd recognized how truly remarkable he'd been.

The idea of a brain injury with an uncertain prognosis was terrifying. He was facing it with strength and courage. In a time when he felt most alone and most in need of support, he had pushed her away, seeking to offer her freedom unencumbered by the burdens of the past and the constant reminder of his betrayal. He'd shown genuine remorse for what he'd done, and authentic concern for her. And even if he'd used the mention of Rachel to force her hand, he'd also demanded protection for her. House saw his presence in her life as a threat to her stability, which in turn meant it was a threat to Rachel's safety and security. He wasn't going to allow that to happen again.

She wasn't deluding herself. He wasn't a gentleman of grace and dignity. He was self-destructive, and quite open to pursuing pain in an effort to punish himself. At any other time she would have seen his actions as manipulation, a way to hurt himself while at the same time preying on her guilt to rescue him. But there was something fundamentally different in his approach this time. He didn't want to be rescued. In fact, he seemed to want to rescue her. He didn't want her to fall into the same tricks and patterns. He wanted her to be free, at whatever cost to him.

It was actually quite a selfless act. As she'd thought about it these past few weeks, she'd wondered if things would have been different if she hadn't been so controlling in their relationship, so determined to orchestrate his behavior and responses. If he'd been given the freedom to face his fears and anxieties, if he'd felt safe enough with her to do that, would he have been stronger? In sharing her weakness with him, would he have been more willing and able to step up with the strength she needed?

"I wanted to see you," she admitted. "I needed to see you."

House searched her expression as he waited for her to continue.

"I've been thinking a lot about you…about us," she said. "And there's something I need to tell you. Something you need to know as much as I need to say."

He gulped, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach as she stepped toward him. She took a deep breath before meeting his eyes with a steady gaze.

"I forgive you."


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to everyone for their comments and ongoing enthusiasm. I so appreciate it! _

_Be warned that Dominika is mentioned in this chapter, much to my own regret. It's a necessary topic to broach I think, but I've always hated that it would even need to be addressed! Oh, Well…The story continues and I hope you enjoy!_

**Chapter 4**

House gazed intently at her; his eyes wide and searching as she stared steadily back at him.

"I know that's difficult for you to say," he finally said, leaning back in his chairs with practiced ease. "It's never easy to be so sexually wound up and be pushed away."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open and House fought back a grin. If the quick fire in her eyes was any indication, she was shocked and offended.

"Seriously?" She asked, her tone heavy with angry dismay. "You think this is about our not having sex? Of all the things you've done, that's what you feel most needs forgiveness?"

House tried not to laugh. He'd been too stunned by her sudden declaration to process the emotions that shot through him, so he'd fallen back on his most tried-and-true response. It certainly provided a bit of levity, and he would never tire of a riled-up Cuddy. She was absolutely stunning as a spitfire.

She squinted at him, recognizing that spark in his eye and the slight twitch of his lips. She attempted an evil eye, and crossed her arms in front of her. "You're an ass," she said.

"Just doing what I always do," he answered with an arrogant shrug. "Living down to expectation."

Cuddy frowned, her amusement quickly extinguished by his words.

He did believe people always expected the worst of him. He always had. And during their relationship, she hadn't done anything to disprove his theory. In retrospect, she realized she hadn't told him enough how proud she was of him, or happy he'd made her. She'd never shown him the ways he made life better, made her better. Oh, she'd told him once, early in their relationship when he'd been desperately seeking for common interests, but at the first sign of trouble she'd become tyrannical. She'd threatened, whined and manipulated. She'd done everything in her power to control the situation she perceived as threatening to their relationship. Ironically, it was her response that fed his fears. It was her actions that threatened them the most.

"I'm sorry I made you feel that way," she sullenly said. "I'm sorry being with me made you feel worse about yourself.

House flinched, stunned by her words.

"Being with you was everything."

She felt sucker punched. It wasn't as if his words should surprise her. After being so hesitant to say he loved her, he'd become proficient at expressing himself through actions, offhanded remarks and tasteless declarations. Yet, hearing him say this now was an unexpected blow to her senses.

"I made you feel like you were never enough," she said in regret. "You were."

He flinched and turned away, clearly moved by her words.

"Nice office," she said, stepping further into the room to look around. She hoped the change in topic would break the tension that threatened.

"The owner of the building was a patient of mine a few years back," he answered as if that explained the luxury of the space. It did actually. It was a very nice office, even for this complex.

"You have a patient?" She gestured to the x-rays on the light box.

"I have six patients," he corrected. "Since I'm not limited to the statutes or bureaucracy of one hospital, I can spread myself around. I'm in demand, you know?"

Cuddy smiled sweetly. "You always were."

"Behind every institution of incompetence is a world of amusement and puzzles," he said. He cocked his head arrogantly and stood to come around the desk. "Of course, being an independent consultant means I don't get regular visits from hot hospital administrators."

Cuddy quirked her brow at him. "Wow, how do you even make it through the day?"

"The UPS guy wears shorts," he said. "He doesn't have your legs, but it's a tradeoff."

She laughed.

She was beautiful. After all these years, after all that had happened, he was still enamored by her. It just wasn't as easy to lie to himself, or to her.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Why? You want me to buy you lunch?" she teased.

"Nah, I'll pay," he said. "It's the least I can do since you came all this way to absolve me of my sins."

She rolled her. "I'm not catholic."

"Neither am I or we'd be in confessional and my pants would be down." He waggled his brows and grinned, enjoying his own irreverence.

She turned up her nose, but released a breathy chuckle. "Nice."

"Come on," he gestured to the door. "I'll take you somewhere fancy. You can tell me about your Endocrinology practice so I can use the receipt for a tax write-off."

Cuddy shook her head at him, but walked out the door ahead of him. She could feel his eyes on her ass, and instinctively put an extra swing to her stride. Some things never changed.

"So tell me," he said as they stepped into the elevator. "How does it feel to actually be a real doctor again?"

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

The waiter handed them each menus and took their drink orders. They were seated at a table in the back of Luigi's, an Italian place around the corner from his office.

"This is nice," she murmured as she looked around.

He shrugged. "It's better than staying in that cramped office and being tempted by your legs."

She looked at him and grinned.

"You look beautiful," he said and locked eyes with her.

Cuddy was startled by the unexpected compliment, but even more by the raw honesty of his expression.

"Or I could just be blinded by your cleavage."

Compliment negated. He was still the same House.

"Pfft, you could get an eye full from your hookers."

House didn't miss the fact she'd brought up his infidelities again. This was obviously an issue with her; troubling her in ways she was abhorred to admit. He should have known. Last time they'd had lunch, the conversation had not only deteriorated, but gone extreme south when she'd mentioned it. He needed to address it.

"Not really," he said. "Besides, the rumors of my hooker use are highly exaggerated."

She stared at him and knew she was remembering the days after their break-up.

_Damn!_

"I haven't been with anyone for a very long time," he said. "And when I did use hookers it was as a service and a distraction; they don't bewitch me."

"One did."

He knew she was talking about Dominika.

"No she didn't."

"We should decide what we want to eat." She nervously looked down at the menu, but House saw her agitation.

"I never slept with her," he said. "I was hurt, and angry, and stupid. It was a business plan to distract me and help her, and was intended to give you the lethal blow you'd given me."

She remembered the pain that shot through her as she'd stood there watching them repeat their vows. She'd been convinced he'd stop the fiasco, convinced he'd never make such a mockery of their relationship. He hadn't stopped it. He'd betrayed her on a level much more damaging than why she'd broken up with him. She'd had to walk away and just feel the pain, unwilling to show anyone how devastated she was feeling.

"It worked," she whispered.

He froze. It was the first time she'd ever admitted it hurt her. It was the first time he'd ever really noticed the depth of pain reflected in her eyes.

"I didn't have a right to be angry or upset since I'd been the one to walk out on you," she said. "But, it should have been me. It should have been my wedding."

He was shocked. "You wanted to marry me?"

Cuddy regarded him with sad, resolute eyes. "No…and yes," she said with a shrug. "As okay as I was with the way were, a part of me still hung onto little girl dreams. I realized that when I was sick, but I guess it all came to the surface when you married her."

He was gob smacked. How often had they mocked the institution of marriage? Reduced it to an unnecessary and useless piece of paper?

"It's not as if I dreamed of us being the perfect married couple," she bowed her head embarrassed and a little ashamed. "I was just happy. And I guess it made me want the elusive happy ever after."

House released his pent up breath and bowed his head, realizing just how profoundly he'd screwed up.

"It was just a business arrangement," he said again, trying to explain…as if that would matter.

"You got along very well with her for it to be just a business arrangement."

"Yes," he agreed. "She was easy."

Cuddy blanched.

"Not that way," he quickly amended. "She was interested in anything I was interested in, agreed with everything I said, wanted everything I wanted. She was like a perfectly programmed doll. Everything I said was funny, and I was the smartest man she'd ever known. Anyone would think she was the perfect wife."

He caught her eyes.

"I never slept with her."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," he insisted. "I felt nothing for her. And it wasn't as if I didn't try. I wanted to feel again. I wanted to find what I had lost with you. But nothing happened with us. Nothing."

"We don't need to talk about this," she said, looking down at the menu again as she chewed on her lip.

"I think we do," he said. "If you're going to forgive me you should know what you're forgiving me for."

She looked up at him then. "I'm pretty sure I know what I'm forgiving you for."

"Then the question is why," he said. "Why are you forgiving me?"

Cuddy took in the determination of his stare and knew it would not be acceptable to side-step the conversation. This was it. This was the time for truth. It was time to put all her cards on the table and finally let go.

"I've been dying inside," she whispered. "I haven't felt anything since we split."

Her fingers played nervously with her silverware. "Julia says I'm an iceberg, and she may be right," she continued. "It doesn't matter how many men flirt or ask me out, or how many people try to set me up on dates, I feel nothing…except with you."

Tears filled her eyes as she stared evenly at him. "No one makes me feel the way you do. It's time I stopped lying to myself about my feelings."

House sat frozen, his eyes boring into hers.

"How do you feel about me?"

All cards on the table, she reminded herself.

"You were it for me, House," she said. "You were the one. No one could ever take your place. I know that, but I can't trust it. I can't accept such a romantic notion. You really scared me."

Emotions threatened to overtake him as he processed her words, so he averted his eyes. Looking down at the table, he whispered, "I scared myself."

They were interrupted by the waiter, which was more a relief than an annoyance, and they hastily placed their orders. Neither had really examined the menu, so they went with their standard selections.

"So what does this mean?" he asked when the waiter left.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I can't keep going on like I have been. I need you in my life."

His eyes widened, a flicker of hope and joy instantly igniting in the blue heat of his eyes. "You're giving me another chance?"

Cuddy quickly corrected him. "I can't be with you that way."

He closed his eyes and she felt him emotionally recoil.

"We can't be friends," he said softly.

"Why?"

It was so frustrating to hear him say that. They'd been friends for years. Surely they could find a way to recapture that friendship.

"Besides the fact I can't look at you without wanting to jump you?" He collapsed back against his chair. "It shouldn't be a surprise anyway. It's a well-known fact men and women can't be friends."

"Oh please," she rolled her eyes. "What are we going to re-enact _When Harry Met Sally_ now?"

"Hearing you fake an orgasm would be the best thing to happen to me in two years!"

She almost chuckled at that…almost.

"Wilson and I were friends for years."

"He would have nailed you in a minute if you'd let him," he disregarded her argument. "And he did several times in his fantasies, I'm sure."

"That's disgusting."

"Tell me about it."

"You're suggesting men and women can't be friends because men will always think about having sex with the woman," she argued. "Completely ignoring the fact that women very often have the same thoughts, it's not even about that. Friendship doesn't mean you ignore your sexuality. It means the affection and respect and the emotional bond take a priority. Having a fantasy doesn't mean you act on it."

His mouth dropped open. "You fantasized about Wilson?"

Cuddy gave him a blank look. "Yes, I had a vibrator named after him," she said and waited for the impact before rolling her eyes. "This is a futile argument. Men and women can be friends, but they have to want it."

"I don't want it."

She started and felt the blood draining from her face. House saw the hurt.

"I'm not going to pretend I don't want you," he said. "I'm not going to live a lie."

"You always lie."

"And look where it's got me!" He said emphatically. "You'll know I'm lying, and if you know the truth then why pretend. And if we're not pretending, then we're accepting it. And if we're accepting it, why aren't we acting on it?"

They stared at each other, unmoving and uncertain.

Surprisingly, House gave in first. "Do we have to define it?" he asked. "Can't we just do whatever comes natural to us and create our own thing? I mean, we were never really friends even before we got together. We had a connection, a trust and an insane attraction. Maybe we had friend-like qualities, but there was way too much between us to say we were ever friends."

He was right. She'd accepted the term to describe their relationship, but what they shared could by no means be defined with by the traditional definition of friendship. Maybe it would be better if they didn't put labels on it now. They didn't really have to define what they were to be what they were. There was no reason to analyze it.

"Okay," she nodded. "We'll just take it as it comes."

"That still happens in the shower," he said suggestively. "Every time I think of you and..."

"House!"

He released a hearty laugh, enjoying her righteous indignation. In fact, he enjoyed everything about her. As they argued and debated, volleyed insults and teased, he found himself marveling at how quickly they'd gone from tension to ease. That seemed to be something they couldn't escape: the comfort and ease that came so naturally to them.

That was how it came they started to spend time together.

She'd caught her flight home the next morning and had only been home a few hours when he called to tell her about the blues festival coming to town. He'd introduced her to blues while they were dating. Though she'd originally started listening to it to appease him and show an interest in his passions, she'd quickly realized she actually liked the music.

Cuddy had agreed to join him for the festival.

He'd called her again a few days later to share the results of his latest test results. He was showing improvement, far beyond what was expected. She was almost giddy about it. He couldn't remember a time she'd shown such enthusiasm. Her reaction left him with butterflies in his stomach.

She'd called him to discuss one of her patients. He'd told her she was too close and cared too much. She'd justified her behaviors, explained bedside manner and the inclusivity of patient care. It was the same old argument between them.

By the time the weekend of the festival arrived, they'd fallen into the habit of talking every night.

"This is lovely," she said as she entered his apartment.

It was the weekend of the festival and they'd spent the entire day at the park visiting the various venues and enjoying the entertainment. As they'd headed back to his apartment for a late dinner, he'd warned her he'd redecorated his living room.

As she looked around at the room – taking in the light tan colored walls with a faux finish reminiscent of venetian plaster, the dark woods and area rugs that projected an Italian flavor – she immediately noted the warmth and peaceful comfort of the design.

"My therapist suggested a physical change to reflect the internal change I'm seeking," he said, his expression revealing his displeasure at the idea even as he smirked at her. "This has you written all over it."

She agreed. It did look like a room she would design. It looked how she'd often envisioned a home they would share.

"You did this?"

"I'm a doctor, not a designer."

"Thank you Leonard McCoy," she replied sarcastically. "You worked with a designer?"

"Yes," he called out as he moved around the kitchen. "She asked a lot of questions to tap into my inner soul and then came up with a design to reflect when I was most happy."

Cuddy didn't miss the connection, or the admission.

"This was actually the second option," he said from behind her. "She couldn't figure out how to design a room around naked Cuddy."

She turned to look at him tolerantly before taking the glass of wine he offered. "I'm sure they could have found something under the perverted and sadistic file."

"You're not that bad," he smirked. She glared at him. "As I recall you're quite good."

Her stomach fluttered in response. It wasn't the first time he'd made such a remark. The flirty repartee between them came as natural as breathing. It had become an anticipated part of their phone conversations and often resulted in her grinning like a teenage girl when she hung up from talking with him. They weren't talking on the phone now though, and it felt very different.

"Apparently there aren't a lot of color schemes and fabric swatches properly representing friends with imaginary benefits," he said as he limped back to the kitchen.

"She could have padded the walls and left a straight jack snuggie," she said.

"Kinky!"

Cuddy followed him and watched him putter around, proficiently chopping and preparing ingredients and combining them in a pan. Although they chatted as he worked, she was more focused on his mastery in the kitchen. She'd always enjoyed watching him cook. There was something very sexy about the rhythm of his movement, and something almost erotic about the way he absorbed the tastes and smells of the ingredients.

He had just sampled the sauce he'd put on to simmer when she came to stand beside him. He turned to look at her curiously.

"Want a taste?" He asked, already reaching for a clean spoon.

Cuddy reached up to touch his jaw. House froze, looking down at her with surprised and curious eyes.

She ran her thumb along his lower lip removing the tiny residue of sauce that lingered, before bringing it to her mouth and licking it. His breath caught, and his eyes grew dark as he watched the movement of her tongue.

And then his mouth was on hers, his tongue lapping at the corners of her lips then sliding inside her mouth to taunt and tease. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close and deepening the kiss. House groaned and pushed his body against her.

Cuddy was acutely aware of his pelvis pressing against her stomach, and his instant response to their embrace. Her body responded with an enthusiastic flare and she didn't fight it. It felt so good to feel alive, to feel such want and need.

House gripped her at the waist and lifted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him into her so he could nestle between her thighs. He fit so perfectly that she sighed into his kiss. His tongue quickened in response, tangling with hers in a dance they'd perfected and memorized.

She squeezed his hips between her knees and arched her body toward him. Her body was as traitorous as his, beyond caring what had happened in the past or what would happen in the future, not worried if it was right or wrong, or concerned with the consequences. They were drowning in the moment.

It was nuts.

And she was hotter than the Sahara. Even her ears sizzled beneath the heat.

"Oh, Shit!" He groaned, pushing away from her and turning quickly toward the stove.

The sauce had bubbled over the sides of the pan.

Cuddy dropped her head back against the back cabinet as he removed the pan and turned the burner off. She was crazy. And frustrated. And too undone to remain here with him.

She hopped off the cabinet.

"Cuddy," he tried to stop her.

"I'm going to use your restroom," she said, but they both knew that was code for 'I can't deal with this right now.'

"I left the toilet seat up!" He quickly said. She frowned at him, wondering at his sudden awkwardness.

"Pre-emptive defense."

She shook her head as she headed down the hall. They were going to be the death of each other, she thought. They were going to slowly torture each other and…

"I can order Chinese," he called out, as she stepped into a puddle of water.

"House!" she called out as she followed the line of water from the hall to the bedroom. "You have a problem."

She waited for him to answer.

"I have a big problem," he mumbled, but then she heard him exclaim "What the hell?"

As he came to stand beside her, he looked at the hole in the ceiling and the water seeping down, flooding his bedroom and the adjoining bath.

"Shit!"

They spent the next couple of hours helping his clueless neighbor shut off the main water valve, contacting the property manager, the plumber and the insurance company, and cleaning up the mess as best they could.

The books and journals he'd kept in his room were soaked, as was the box of photos under his bed. Cuddy had brought them into the living room and spread them out to dry, noting that most of the photos were from their time together. He came up behind her with some of the other memorabilia that had become drenched.

He frowned at the damaged pictures.

"I have copies," she said, but couldn't look at his face.

He nodded, and moved back to the bedroom, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the sentimental bullshit that seemed to be overtaking him. He was already raw from the brief interlude into passion with Cuddy, but now to have his stuff ruined. He felt like a sap.

House turned to see Cuddy get down on the floor with a hand full of towels.

"This was not how I planned to get you on your hands and knees," he said dryly.

She glared at him over her shoulder, but he caught the tug of a grin at the corner of her mouth. He boldly looked down at her ass, but Cuddy turned away, ignoring him. He was disappointed.

"You'll need to stay at a hotel tonight."

He knew she was right and turned to pack a bag. It was decided he would hitch a ride with her to where she was staying and get a room there.

"Maybe we can have breakfast before your plane leaves tomorrow," he suggested. Cuddy agreed, but she wasn't thinking about breakfast.

As they made their way to the hotel, House complained about the damage and the necessity to deal with contractors who were part of a conspiracy with home insurance companies. Cuddy barely paid attention. She couldn't think about anything except how they'd quickly come together in this small crisis, moving in sync and anticipating each other's moves. They moved together so naturally, without thought or plan, but in a simple flow. Just like when he kissed her, touched her. Just like when they made love, she recalled with more detail than was proper.

House was commenting on the lobby as she stood beside him waiting for the couple in front of them to finish checking-in. She looked at the hand holding his bag and remembered his touch. She slid her eyes up his arm, recalling his strength and how easily he'd lifted her even with the weakness of his leg. She noticed the flush of his neck and thought of how much she enjoyed tracing the pink pattern of his skin with her tongue. Her eyes drank in his profile, following the line of his jaw, the pulp of his lips, the curve of his nose and the length of his lashes at his eyes.

"Come on," she suddenly said. "You can sleep in my room."

She didn't wait for a response, but quickly walked toward the elevator.

House watched her walk away, too stunned to move, yet too afraid not to. What did she mean sleep in her room? She must be in a double; she was offering the second bed. But they would still be sharing a bathroom, and a room, and an intimacy they hadn't shared in a long time. Granted, they'd kissed earlier, and it was hot, but then she'd rushed to put distance between them. She'd immediately regretted their embrace. Or had she? Maybe she hadn't. Maybe she wanted to continue and offering to share her room was an excuse.

_A guy can hope. _

He forced himself to follow her, his mind racing with questions.

She was conspicuously silent, he noted. And she seemed to keep her eyes averted, not looking at him once during the ride up to the 5th floor. He couldn't find the words to speak. He could only watch her, searching for answers, or even clues. He couldn't find any. She was calm and focused. She was so frustratingly aloof!

House followed her into the room after she'd unlocked the door and came to an abrupt halt, barely registering the sound of the door closing behind him.

There was only one bed, a king size bed.

House dropped his bag.

Cuddy turned, startled by the sound, and then felt her heart melt at the expression on his face.

"There's only one bed," he said, his voice heavy with nervous fear and hope.

"Yes, I know," she said as she kicked off her shoes.

House watched as she began to unbutton her blouse. She wasn't talking, wasn't explaining, wasn't giving any clue to where this was headed. Well…except for the fact she slipped the shirt off her arms and body and tossed it to the chair in the corner of the room.

He swallowed hard. "You're undressing."

"Yes, I know," she said, still not looking at him as her hands reached for the button of her jeans.

"Cuddy?" He choked out.

She finally looked up at him, noting his confusion, nervousness, hope and desire. He was a bundle of emotion, tense and ready to blow.

She tilted her head to the side and smiled tenderly at him.

"I want to make love with you, House."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you again for all of the wonderful comments and for the support. You are the greatest. I hope you enjoy. _

_Disclaimer: I have hope. Obviously that means I'm not connected with the show or Shore._

**Chapter 5**

"What?" He asked. There was no way he had heard her right.

Her hands slid up his chest and circled around his shoulders before slowly dropping back down to the center of his chest and down his abdomen. "I want to make love with you," she said again, her eyes following the path of her hands. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to analyze it, or wonder what it means, or worry what will happen in the future. I don't want to question what I'm doing." Her hands slipped beneath the hem of his t-shirt. "I just want you," she said as she leaned in to kiss his chin. "Right now. Tonight. Because it feels right."

His eyes fluttered closed against the wave of relief that washed over him. How long had he waited to hear that again? How many times had he bemoaned it would never happen? Beat himself up for destroying any chance for them?

The touch of her hand sliding along his stomach sent pulse of desire straight to his groin.

"Can we do that, House? Can we have just tonight?"

He looked at her, fighting the fog spreading through his brain so he could process the words. Surely he'd misunderstood. "Just tonight?"

She frowned and took a step back, hesitant to pursue this line of conversation. It totally went against her request for the evening. She didn't want to think about where they were headed. For once she just wanted to take it one step at a time, one moment at a time. She'd been sure he'd just go with it: A rather heavy miscalculation on her part.

"I don't know," she finally answered honestly. "I can't promise you anything but tonight."

He felt an ache radiate from his chest and through his stomach.

"I want more," he whispered, his vocal chords heavy with emotion.

Cuddy bit on her lower lip as she averted her eyes, looking at his chest again with desire and longing…and fear. She was afraid. It was just that simple. Thinking about her feelings, his feelings, wondering about their future and remembering their past, it was just too much. This wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't what was supposed to happen tonight. Why couldn't he understand she couldn't commit to more. She just couldn't.

"I can't," she said, shaking her head and turning away from him.

He was startled and dismayed, paralyzed by how a dream-come-true had disintegrated in a few seconds. His eyes followed her, watching the curve of her spine as she moved, drinking in her pale skin that he intimately knew was soft and smooth. He was gripped by emotions.

This couldn't be happening, he thought. She was offering him tonight and he was turning her away, playing the long game, denying himself tonight in the hopes of a future. Was he nuts?

"I'm sure you can get another room," he heard her say, as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

_Shit!_

When had he become so stupid?

Cuddy stripped out of her remaining clothes, tied her hair up off her neck, and stepped into the shower. She couldn't believe he was hesitating, that he wasn't jumping at the chance. He wanted her. He'd made that very clear. She also knew he wanted another chance at a future with her; he wanted a relationship. What she hadn't understood was how he'd made it a package deal, connecting the two so completely he wouldn't have one without the other. It seemed unfathomable, and yet here she was alone in the shower because he was once again making an infuriatingly noble gesture. People would be surprised to know he was so monogamous and faithful. He put on such a good show. Even she overlooked that part of him at times. She'd underestimated it tonight that was for sure.

He wanted to build something with her, not just give in to desire and curiosity. He wanted to build something sustaining this time. She was beginning to understand how important that was to him. Unfortunately, she didn't know if any of this would turn out well for them. How could it? There was just so much pain marring their relationship. She still battled with so many memories.

As the water pounded against her neck and back, she remembered that fateful day that had changed her life forever.

He'd driven his car into her home. He'd risked her life and the lives of everyone in her house at the time. In that moment, her life had been thoroughly destroyed.

She'd been barely hanging on since she'd broken up with him. Whatever he thought, that had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. She'd gone to work - day after day - anxious for the chaos and responsibilities of the hospital to distract her, but all of the structure and control she'd felt had been slowly chipped away. He'd monopolized her every thought, and she was powerless to stop it.

Then he'd married that witch and the black hole opened up inside her, sucking every ounce of remaining life out of her. She'd been consumed with pain, her only protection, the icy veneer enshrouding her. Finding him in the bathtub that night with his leg sliced open had been a wake-up call. If he could take such an experimental drug and then perform such a careless act, she knew he must be plummeting as quickly as her. She knew they needed to talk. They needed to get it all out, to clear the air and purge all of the pent up emotions. For a second she'd thought they might reach that point. They might just find a way to recover. Then just as quickly, everything had taken a disastrous turn.

He'd walked away from that crash pleased with himself. He'd ripped her of any hope for recovery, of all security and safety, of her will to even try. To save her life, and the life of her daughter, she'd determined to start over in a new place with a new career and a whole new existence.

Admittedly, she hadn't been very successful. She had a great new home, a new practice; Rachel had taken the changes in stride and settled in very quickly. Everything would have been perfect if she'd felt anything.

The past two years had been an insane, dangerous ride. That was life with House, a runaway train on a broken track. She was afraid to go back there, afraid of losing herself again, of putting her daughter in the eye of such a storm. She was afraid of hurting him again.

His injury and illness, didn't remove those fears. The forgiveness and their renewed relationship didn't ease the fears. They were always there, little piranhas nipping away at her. It wasn't like before, when fear of the unknown battled with her desire to know if they could make it. No. This time it was the knowledge of what she would face and being drawn to that insanity in spite of what she knew that terrified her.

Cuddy rinsed the soap from her body as she thought about what she'd done tonight.

She'd asked him to share the room, asked him to make love with her. The fear hadn't stopped her because she hadn't even thought about it. She'd just been in the moment.

She knew that wasn't the way he operated. It wasn't the way she operated. It was careless, and yet it was exactly what she needed. It felt right…Right for her. He needed answers. He would worry and analyze until he couldn't stay awake and then he'd dream about the clues until he solved the puzzle. There was no way he was ever going to go into a night with her without thinking about the meaning behind it. He'd been careful to be honest and open with her since he'd come back into her life, cautious of his steps yet still as unpredictable and volatile as ever.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, she did want more than one night. These past few months she'd been alive again. She enjoyed being with him, looked forward to talking to him. There were differences between them this time. Not many, but some. Enough to know their ride at least had complete tracks to ride now. So yes, even though she'd insisted it would be one night, she knew it would be more. She wanted the excitement and the thrill, the adrenaline rush and the uncontrolled passion. She wanted the ride, the crazy triple loop, cavern drop, z-force rollercoaster, but she just couldn't think about any more than that brave first step. Anticipating more would paralyze her with fear.

Cuddy wanted to groan. She'd really blown this.

"I scared myself," he'd said to her.

In all his arrogance and outrageous flirting, he was as afraid as her. He needed to understand where she stood, what she wanted and expected before he could take a chance again. He needed to know he was walking on safe ground and not the quicksand he'd stepped in before.

Cuddy turned off the water. She'd have to find him and talk to him, explain what she was feeling. If she really wanted to be with him, she needed to be brave enough to at least start it out with some transparency.

She gasped when she opened the shower curtain to find House standing there. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that literally left her weak in the knees. His laser blue eye burned into her in a steady, unwavering dissection. She felt nervous and anxious, a contrast to the confidence she'd felt when she'd asked him to make love with her. Now, she was naked and soul bared, completely vulnerable to him and her own emotions.

His eyes slowly circled her face, touching on every feature before pausing at her mouth. She licked her lips, remembering his taste, anticipating the touch of his lips.

He stepped toward her and she instinctively took the hand he offered as she stepped out of tub. She wanted to tell him what she'd been thinking, suggest they talk. She wanted to know what he was thinking, what he expected.

When she went to take the towel from him, he didn't release it. Instead his eyes started a slow, excruciating journey down her neck, to her right collarbone over to the left and then down to her breasts. He looked like a man in a desert, thirsty but afraid he was seeing a mirage. His lips parted and she knew lust had made normal breathing more difficult.

He lifted the towel and began to slide it over her skin, taking great care to touch every area of her body. Down her arms to her hands, across her chest and beneath her breasts, he took his time. His eyes followed the path of the towel, their voracious potency burning her skin. As he slid the fabric over her abdomen, he awkwardly dropped to his knees. The towel dropped lower, exposing more and more skin for his view. He leaned forward and lightly ran his beard along the skin just above her belly button.

Cuddy gasped when he reached around and cupped her ass, holding her still as his jaw and cheek grazed her stomach. The texture of his scruff against the softness of her skin almost had her eyes rolling back in her head with pleasure.

He dropped the towel to her ankle and she felt him slowly sliding it up her leg. But then his chin met the small patch of hair at the juncture of her thighs. She sucked in her breath, suddenly in need of oxygen as he moved his face against her. He didn't kiss or lick or attempt to spread her legs. Instead, nuzzled and breathed in her fragrance.

House took his time drying her skin, looking at her and touching her. He enjoyed the anticipation of the moment, but even more the delight in her. She was so beautiful, everything about her. Being with her always left him in a state of awe. He didn't think she truly understood how much he cherished her.

The towel was sliding up her other leg, but she felt like she was losing consciousness. This was the most erotic thing she'd ever experienced. She wasn't sure she had the strength to remain standing, but he slid around her and began the process again, grazing the back of her thighs and her derriere, nuzzling the curve of her back just at the slope of her rear.

"House," she groaned. The sensations were becoming too heady.

She felt him stand up behind her before he slid the towel over her back. Then his arms were around her, his hands cupping her breasts and his mouth sliding up her neck.

"I'll take tonight," he whispered in her ear. He'd made a decision and he was not going to let this moment pass him by. She closed her eyes against this sweet torment of his words. "But I want more."

He was going to be the death of her.

She turned around to face him and lost her breath. The love he felt for her was so raw and exposed in his expression.

They lunged at each other. Their lips collided and their tongues invaded. He lifted her off the ground and wrapped her legs around him. He stumbled through the bathroom door and to the bed, where he dropped her. He was already ripping off his shirt as she bounced on the mattress. By the time she sat on her knees facing him, he was dropping his jeans and boxers.

She only caught a glimpse of his heavy, thickly veined erection before he pulled her to him for another deep kiss then pushed her back down on the bed. He was kneeling before her again, but this time he'd spread her wide, placing her legs on his shoulder as he began to tongue her cleft. He wasn't trying to tease her. He was hungry and desperate to devour her.

She was sprawled out before him, wet and ready. He was rough and impatient, completely carnal in his approach. She loved it.

When he levered over her and slid his cock along her slit. She thought she'd scream out in need. Her nerves were alight, her clit swollen and hard. She needed him inside her. She needed to be filled with his strength and power. Her hips rose up to meet him as he positioned himself at her opening, but he didn't push forward. He hovered at the edge, a hairsbreadth away from fulfillment.

She looked up at him, frantic with need. He was watching her, his eyes growing tender as he watched her writhe beneath him.

"Don't you dare," she warned. He was not going to take this slow. This was no time for a deliberate exploration. He could do that later. "I want it hard. I want you…"

He plunged into her. She could feel him deep within and she moaned out in pleasure.

His mouth covered hers, kissing her hard before pulling back and out. Her fingernails tore into his back. He smirked at her, enjoying her feral response. Then he lunged into her again and again.

The rhythmic slap of his balls against her and the harsh thrust of his possession were driving her mad. She was stretched to capacity and filled to the brim. He reached down between them to touch her clit and she began to pant.

"Let it go, Cuddy," he demanded.

The tremor hit her and she began to writhe. Her pulse pounded and her sex coiled, tightening into a pressurized mound of sensation before finally exploding. The orgasm rippled through her body and she spasmed against his erection until he released a guttural groan as he emptied himself inside her.

She held him as he calmed, stroking his back and hips, kissing his shoulder and neck.

Then he was rolling to the side, pulling the covers over them as he pulled her back into his arms.

Cuddy curled into him. Her hand rested on his chest and her leg slightly bent over his.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the peaceful bliss of the moment, but House was not at rest.

He ran his fingers along her spine and over her shoulders with that light touch she'd missed at nights. There was something about the way he always had to touch her, to feel her beside him, that made her feel safe and loved, even when everything else was chaotic. She'd missed that. She's missed him.

"I can hear you thinking," she mumbled. "Go to sleep."

"Can't," he said. "I need to tell you something."

"What?" she asked when he didn't immediately continue with his thought.

"I'm not giving up," he said, his fingers pausing for a moment on her arms before sliding down her back.

She didn't respond.

"I can accept this is one night, but I'll push for more, you know that, right?"

She remained quiet. She was considering his words, weighing her own response to the words. She couldn't help but not the pleasure she felt seemed to outweigh the fear.

"You know I'm relentless," he added. He wasn't going to let up.

Cuddy suddenly reached between his legs to stroke him. His response was immediate. He had quite surprising resilience for a man his age actually.

"This won't distract me."

She crawled up over him, straddling his hips. She was still slick from their lovemaking, and as she moved against him rhythmically, he became ready for her in no time at all. As she lowered herself onto him, he pushed up into her. It felt so good, so right. They both smiled.

He pushed her hair away from her face and then dropped his hands to her breasts. He cupped and kneaded them, moving his thumb over her nipples with increasing pressure. He had magical fingers.

She leaned back and braced her hands on his knees, rocking her hips back and forth. He tugged and pinched at her nipples, which sent a signal to her core that left her undulating against him. She closed her eyes to focus on the feel of him inside her. He was so completely a part of her. She didn't miss the importance of that imagery.

His hands dropped to her thigh and he gripped them, pulling her against him and he pushed himself deeper into her.

"There's no one but you, Cuddy," he said. "There never will be."

His gravelly voice and the certainty of his words combined with the unrelenting pressure building inside her womb. It was too much to control. She cried out in ecstasy. He ground his teeth and clutched her hips, continuing his rhythmic thrusts against her until he growled her name and collapsed back against the pillows, weak and drained.

She lay on top of him for a few minutes, nuzzling her head against his chest and listening to his heart. There was no one but him. There never would be.

When their breathing returned to normal, she looked up and him and kissed his chin before sliding to his side. He followed her as she curled up beside him in a loose fetal position. He spooned her, his large body curled perfectly around her.

His fingers once again slid along the line of her shoulder and down her arm. His restless touch was a reminder of the many possibilities that currently outranked her fears.

"You must want more," he said, persisting with his argument.

"I need to sleep, House," she said. "I have an early flight tomorrow."

His fingers paused mid-stroke and she knew he was scowling. He wasn't going to let it drop.

"There's no way this can be one night." He was confounded, clearly flustered by her lack of commitment and her apparent disinterest in even pursuing the conversation.

"Go to sleep, House."

"You can't just ignore what's going on between us," he was building up steam. "And don't bother thinking we're just friends with benefits. This is real. We're the real thing."

She didn't respond.

"You could move back here," he suggested.

"I'm not moving my practice, or Rachel," she said. "Go to sleep."

"Then I'll move."

"You've just started therapy, and a practice, and your thesis," she said. "Don't be ridiculous. Go to sleep."

"Don't tell me what to do."

He was such a child! She was fighting a grin.

"At least say you'll think about it." She almost laughed at the way he was flouncing and pouting behind her.

Cuddy reached out and took his hand, pulling it around to between her breasts.

"Next weekend you do the traveling and stay at my place," she said.

As he processed her words, Cuddy could feel the smile spread across his face as he moved his jaw along her shoulder.

"And the following weekend?"

She entwined their fingers and snuggled back into him, burrowing into the curve of his body.

"Good night, House," she said with a grin on her face.

This was a new beginning, not the one he'd hoped or imagined, but it was good. He kissed her shoulder and felt content.

"Good night, Cuddy."


End file.
